Born To

I just fuck. And fuck, and fuck, and fuck. I am genetically predisposed to fuck. Since the sex drive is so powerful, I am sure anyone could say this. But other people seem to have a capacity to do other things. I just seem to be predisposed to fuck. When I am not fucking, I am thinking about it. When I am working, in the back of my mind there is action between my legs.

People bore me with envious innuendos of sexual addiction. What I have goes beyond addiction, beyond obsession, to destiny. Some goddess and god built me to explore and refine the sex apparatus and not much inclination toward anything else. This is not to say I am not good at what I do in my day job. It's just that what you see me do in my job is not at all what I am thinking. I am doing my research and lecturing. I am thinking about fucking.

Will you be my research assistant in exploring fucking? That is what I am thinking when you think I am thinking about research. What does your cock taste like? If I developed the sensitivity in my cunt, could I count the waves of semen you fire into me? Have you masturbated yet today? If so, what did you think about?

I often think something weird that I don't tell anyone. I am only the woman's voice for sex. I know that for every thought I have, some man somewhere thinks a masculine thought that fits it. Every orgasm I have matches one of his, like a mirror, or like a glove. Again, people bore me with rhetoric about my lack of autonomy, or my inability to develop my sense of self. Trust me. Being alone is not a problem for me. Finding peace and tranquility each day, and sleeping blissfully at night, and enjoying personal space and time is essential to me. Whether I am at home in the States, or abroad. With a partner or friends, or without.

What I am describing is an invisible connection with a man that complements every breath I take, and that responds to every nerve ignited in my body. Somewhere, right now, some man is writing this note with his masculine demeanor straining to find me. Internal or external, it doesn't really matter. It is both. He is a real man with a real cock in the real world. But he is also the rest of me. I can't tell where I end and he begins. I may or may not find him during this lifetime. But it doesn't matter that much. I am always complete in knowing he is there. And knowing that he knows that I exist. And knowing that I know he knows.

If I have to fuck every flesh and blood male in the world to find him, so be it. I will know. How can I do this? Well, as you sit across from me looking at my research proposal and working hard to keep your expression calm when you realize the magnitude and impact of my figures, secretly saying to yourself that I must not have a life, I am planning on taking you home and fucking you. And I am going to. If you are lucky, your body can come along. But tonight I will fuck you into a delirious spiritual exile. You may or may not be there in person. But I will be fucking you for all you're worth. This is not a fantasy, it is a search.

Sex is the only thing that is as certain as death -- and I am not sure about taxes. Death is just death, but sex is life. Religions may be right or wrong, or irrelevant, but what I have between my legs, that leads up into my whole body, and into my entire personhood is what brings life into being. Am I obsessed with keeping it functioning in top condition? You service your car and your air conditioning for doing much less important work. You spend hours tweaking your computer. So, I spend hours painstakingly exploring and servicing my pussy. Much greater things happen there. So it is for your cock, mister.

You will find that I lose myself when I am playing with your cock. I am thinking and contemplating when I am exploring you. Like art, science, dance, and music combined. Surprise my taste buds with your semen. Leak your liquid on my tongue and let me savor and think about it. Hold it deep inside me. There. Just hold it. Let my nerves line up alongside your nerves and let's squeeze them together so the nerves talk and dance. Nerve fucking nerve. Mine fucking yours. Me fucking you.

When you come, does it feel like you hurled a miniature capsule of yourself through a channel? Or does it feel like you emptied a pint of thick, hot, liquid you into deep, dark, exotic me and then it seeps alongside my inside skin, and engulfs you in your own liquid essence form?

Do you wonder what it smells like in there? What it feels like when it happens? What it tastes like from inside? That is why we eat sex. We eat sex to imagine what it is like to be sex. What do we do during a day that is more important? Watch television? Explore ideas? Cook meals? All of these are fine, but none of these is worth more than exploring what we are.

A contradiction in ideas. Semen searching eggs between my legs while our mouths make words about significance levels and biases. Contradictions and duality abound. A sample size of one hundred and twenty is required to get an effect size of 85%. If I sit on slightly lower surface, does your penis angle more perfectly to fit the upward slant of my vagina?

I don't just want to be fucked. I want to watch myself being fucked. I love having a man worship my cunt with his mouth. How can I possibly be more open than by spreading my legs apart and opening my pussy wide for a man to see and play with? I love to watch. I love to talk. I love to move. I love to taste. Let me come in your mouth and I'll let you come in my mouth. I will watch you suck me until I come in your mouth and you can watch while you come in my mouth.

I find my nipples and play with them while you taste my cunt. I dance for you, moving my whole body into your mouth. I dance with your tongue. I fuck your mouth with my pussy. I get excited with your excitement at my heated cunt aroma. I watch your tongue sinking into me.

I mix my spit with your cum and show it to you. I am tasting your cum. What does that mean? It's not like I am drinking your Pepsi, or taking a bite of your apple. It's mind boggling to know that when I taste your cum I am tasting you. When I beg you to eat me, I am begging you to do exactly that. Eat me. Tasting your life force is tasting you in your essence. How can that not be sweet, salty, raw, and a little overpowering and disconcerting? Really.